I don't like that description. I don't know whether it's because I'm looking at it with hindsight, with knowing all the hospital years that were to come and how hard I've had to fight for my life. It seemed funny at the time because I was just me. I didn't know any different. I knew I was ill, I knew I'd had a shaky start to life, but given my mind reading powers aren't what they ought to be, I didn't know how else I was meant to feel. It seemed embarrassing because it made me feel naked and exposed. And now it makes me sad for the same reasons- maybe I was damaged and troubled, demonstrated by the fact that I knew nothing but chaos and that feeling exposed felt like the most dangerous thing of all.
But maybe I was neither damaged nor troubled.
Maybe, I was just incredibly adaptive. Maybe, it was actually pretty impressive that I matched my environment so well. I only survived the last 25 years by being alert and on guard. It's made me anxious and jumpy and even, as I was diagnosed, 'hyper aroused' (as it happens, that's not a sex thing. It just means that my senses are heightened, which is a nightmare because it makes every hurt all the worse). It has some weird side-effects- I'm incredibly ticklish because even my sense of touch is more alert and I use a lot of salt and/or sugar on my food and drink because things taste vile otherwise. And of course I hallucinate (fun fact: my voices have returned. But I'm going to talk about that another day). All the energy that was spent on surviving doesn't now know what else to do.
Some days, it would be easier to give in and just let my instincts to take over. Some days, it would be easier to end it all. Some days, some days, some days. I can't rely on my instincts, because maybe they're damaged and troubled. Maybe now I don't rely on them like I used to, and now I have to put more thought into life than the average person, I can be separated from the damaged and troubled bits.